


Do it for the Shawarma

by im95notdead (jncxo)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: In which the Avengers get shawarma and Loki plots his revenge, Tag to Avengers post-credit scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3740341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jncxo/pseuds/im95notdead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic exploring what Loki might have been up to during the Avengers post-credit scene, since he had to miss out on getting shawarma. Slight crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do it for the Shawarma

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a gift for the lovely definitelyafangirl. If you aren't following her on tumblr, you should be! She and I had a lively text discussion over what Loki might have been up to while the Avengers were getting shawarma, seeing as he was muzzled and shackled and whatnot. We came up with a few ideas, and I couldn't help but turn them into this goofy story. Reviews are love! Thanks for reading.

Loki had been muzzled by some sort of S.H.I.E.L.D. contraption, cuffed, and chained to a Midgardian parking tax device. And for what? So the illustrious Avengers could partake in the Arab delicacy known as shawarma.

 

He was conveniently not invited.

 

In fact, not only was he not invited, but he had to wait on Thor, God of Thunder, to transport him back to the realm of Asgard, where he knew a cell awaited him. And what was Thor doing at the moment? Feeding his face with that damned shawarma.

 

What a big production Anthony Stark had made, too, Loki mused bitterly, as he lounged against the parking meter, his legs stretched out in front of him on the pavement, parallel to the road. His legs were angled slightly so that his ankles dangled over the curb side, and he kicked his feet lightly as he sat, watching New York City pass by. There were countless cars – so many of these foolish mortals would rather spend their hours stuck in the back of one than be bothered to walk a few minutes to reach their destination. Lazy, ignorant…

 

One such vehicle pulled up in front of Loki, the shiny black finish of the car barely grazing his nose as he lazily watched traffic. There was a metallic thunk – the opposite side door being slammed – and a man appeared, rounding the front bumper, hand deep in the pocket of his khaki shorts. He stopped short when he noticed Loki sitting there, chained up, and hesitantly withdrew a handful of change from his pocket.

 

“Uh… sup, dude,” he drawled, and Loki raised an eyebrow. If, _if_ he were able to speak, he had quite a few criticisms for the mortal, dressed in sloppy, baggy clothes, slouching, grunting like some sort of untrained monkey. But alas, his only tools of communication were his eyes, which, Loki was sure, conveyed his deep and utmost hatred and annoyance. The man surveyed him, still seeming hesitant, before shaking his head. “You lose a bet?” Loki watched in surprise as the man stepped over his legs, up onto the sidewalk, and began dropping the coins into the machine. There was a sharp _clang_ with each piece of change dropped in. The man disappeared into the building right next to the Arab restaurant, and Loki scooted, careful not to overextend his bounds, trying to get a better glimpse of his surroundings.

 

The open windows of the shop housed motionless human figures – mannequins of some sort – decorated in garish underclothes. His brows furrowed. Midgard had shops of ladies’ decorative… attire? Such garments just out on display? The neon lettering above the door formed the phrase “Tickle Your Fancy.” Loki raised an eyebrow and could not help the smirk that came to his mouth, and he turned his head away. Someone had a sense of humour, for he was fairly certain that was meant to be a euphemism.

 

A young woman was approaching at a jog, heels clicking obnoxiously against the pavement, muttering to herself under her breath; her eyes were fixed on a small device held in one hand, and the other hand had been tasked with holding her wildly curly tendrils of hair out of her face. She happened to glance up as she approached, and by the time her eyes fell on Loki, she almost tripped over one of his long legs.

 

“What the hell?” she demanded shrilly, sidestepping him and nearly falling out of her ridiculously high heeled shoes. Her footwear looked like some sort of torture device, and Loki allowed himself to be momentarily impressed she’d been able to take a step in them, much less be sprinting down the street.

 

“Can you point me in the direction of – oh, for god’s sake, will you quit staring at my shoes?” Loki’s eyes flicked up to her face; she was lovely, but her face was full of rage, and for a moment he feared she might cause him bodily harm.

 

“Why am I even doing this? Moving to New York was such a stupid idea. Nobody can make it here.” She seemed to be talking to herself, then she made eye contact with him and shook her head. “If I’m not careful, I’m going to end up like you – dressed like a Star Trek villain, chained to a parking meter.” She paused. “Word of advice? Get some new friends.” She swept past him, shaking her head and cursing under her breath the whole way.

 

These humans were utterly ridiculous.

 

A couple more people passed Loki without so much as a glance. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Just hours before, he’d definitely captured everyone’s attention. Hardly any of these people even recognized him, now. That wasn’t the only thing bothering him, though – how easy it appeared to be to get lost in New York City. No, another matter at hand were the birds. Not _all_ the birds… just one species in particular. They were large and fat, with dark grey heads, lighter grey bodies, two black horizontal stripes on their backs and at the ends of their tail. They were everywhere. And now they were coming to Loki.

 

The banished prince did not understand. These feathered creatures likely had simplistic, one-track minds. They were following instinct, meeting needs. Probably hunger. Loki himself had not eaten in… well, he could not remember when. Still, he had no food on his person or even nearby. So why – ?

 

Upon closer inspection, it seemed small bits of food debris had been littered from the waste can outside the Arab restaurant. Loki was surrounded by stray bits of greasy Midgardian fare and, now, winged vermin. They surrounded him, pecked at his boots – one even had the gall to flutter a metre into the air and settle on his shoulder to dine.

 

_I could easily rule your meek species_ , Loki thought ruefully, making eye contact with one of the birds. It cocked its head to the side. _Bow to me, you feathery, insipid moron._

 

Unfortunately, none of the birds could actually hear his thoughts, and continued to peruse the area for what was left of the shawarma mess.

 

Then along came what Loki chose to mentally refer to as the female, mortal Warriors Three. Perhaps, Loki could refer to them as women – they were too young for the title, though, but too old to be girls. They were dressed in casual wear, two of the three bespectacled, chatting animatedly about something nonsensical. The tallest of the three takes notice of him and gasped excitedly. “Woah! Dude’s getting mauled by pigeons!” There was a pause, and then, “Check out the costume.”

 

“I bet that took forever to make,” the redhead with glasses said. They had reached his feet, and she crouched down to study him closely. “Is that supposed to be some kind of industrial muzzle? It looks real. Almost… robotic.”

 

“Do you think he knows Comic Con isn’t until next month?” the third asked timidly from behind the others.

 

“He could have gotten the dates mixed up?” the tall one offered up, twirling her long braid in contemplation.

 

“Maybe they’re advertising,” the redhead said, rising to her feet and adjusting her glasses. By now, it seemed, the girls realized that Loki could not respond; that or, as the ginger girl had so rudely implied, he was some sort of advertisement, and perhaps they thought him best silent. “Some kind of medieval space prince.” She paused and smirked. “He’d attract more than just pigeons if they dressed him as slave Leia.”

 

The three burst into a fit of giggles and continued on their trek past Loki, who silently fumed. He had no clue what a “slave Leia” was, but it didn’t sound good. Foolish Avengers and this stupid muzzle. He longed to rip it off and scream loud enough to be heard in all nine realms. Surely Thor had not anticipated leaving him mute for this long – the hindrance of not being able to articulate his feelings was quite a punishment enough.

 

Loki had held a great deal of pent-up anger inside him, and though under the influence of the Chitauri’s power, the release had been quite thrilling. Being cooped up in his father’s vast Asgardian palace, save useless adventures with Thor, had been quite dull, and such a spirited break in the monotony was quite welcome. Even if it had left him in chains in the middle of the city he had sought to rule.

 

Loki liked the feeling of power, alright; it was in his blood to rule, whether or not his fathers felt like fulfilling his wishes. Perhaps he’d gone a little overboard in his attack – many had perished, lives lost. But they were so damned easy to control. If he could just lose the chains, and reclaim access to his magic… Loki grinned beneath the prison locking up his mouth. There were plenty of flashy ways for him to exert power. Perhaps this wasn’t over. Someday he would gain control of an entire realm – perhaps not Midgard, but he _would_ have leagues of people bow at his feat.

 

His intricate plans and smirk faded rather quickly, however, as another man approached. This one bore the uniform Loki had seen on many humans already today – he believed it to be the clothing of the Midgardian police force’s officers. The man looked horrendously angry as he got closer. “Sir, are you quite done hanging around here?” Loki sighed heavily and shrugged; the motion caused some of the chains holding him to clang together and the officer, now taking notice of his bonds, took a step back.

 

Loki tried to imagine what it was like, seeing him through the officer’s eyes; chained up, muzzled, and left for dead in front of an establishment selling products intended for females’ sexual use. And, as he’d been reminded already today, he was far too overdressed for the lazy humans’ standards.

 

The officer looked quite torn for a long moment before sighing deeply, shaking his head, and taking a small notepad out of his pocket. He glanced up at Loki nervously before returning his gaze to the paper and scribbling quickly. There was a small _rip_ as he tore the paper, and the officer slowly approached. He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it, and simply reached out and pressed the paper against Loki’s hairline. Loki tossed his head angrily, and the officer nearly tripped from backing up so quickly.

 

“Stay out of trouble now, son,” he stuttered before heading back the way he come, walking twice as fast as when he’d approached.

 

What in the Norns had this dimwit affixed to Loki’s forhead? Loki shook his head back and forth, up and down, trying to dislodge the stubborn note. After a moment of struggle, he was able to shake the small paper free, and it fluttered down onto his lap.

 

**THE PERSON DESCRIBED ABOVE IS CHARGED AS FOLLOWS**

 

The pathetic mortal cop had attempted to charge him with law-breaking? Loki furrowed his brows. The writing was sloppy and mussed, but he could make out bits about “hogging traffic meter” and “loitering.” Loki scoffed. How sweet. It would have been such a joy to rule over imbeciles like this one. Though, perhaps, he hadn’t yet missed his chance. He would be imprisoned in Asgard for the foreseeable future – perhaps, he mused with a tight smirk, also imprisoned here on Midgard for some time, if this fool of a police officer had his say. Well, that was fine. Loki had his own ideas…

 

He shifted in his position. His wrists were starting to chafe, and his rear end was at a painful stage of paresthesia. Surely, by standards set in the Odinson’s dining room, at the very least Thor had finished his meal of shawarma. Loki had plotting to do, and this sort of environment was stifling to his logic and imagination.

 

“Who are you supposed to be?”

 

Loki looked up and his gaze locked with the biggest pair of eyes he had seen in over a thousand years. Bright, blue, and belonging to perhaps the smallest being he’d seen in equally as long a time. A small Midgardian girl, hair the colour of corn silk, gazed up at him in wonderment, an ice cream cone clutched in her hand. She took a contemplative lick, seeming to be waiting for a response. Loki gave none. She eyed him up and down, and her brow furrowed. “That’s not a very good costume,” she informed him matter-of-factly, taking another lick.

 

_Costume? You puny human, these are the vestments of a true god. If you had any sense in the malleable putty that is your brain, you would quiver in fear at the sight of me –_

 

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp poke to his side. Loki winced; she’d found a spot on his ribs without a layer of armour, a spot that he’d landed on at one point in the day, and was already rather sore.

 

“Are you ticklish?” she asked, and Loki was surprised at how terrified the manic, evil gleam in her eyes made him. She poked him again, harder, and he groaned internally. He tried shaking his head, hoping it would deter her pestering. She gave one last poke and took a step back.

 

The girl didn’t keep tight enough hold on her frozen dessert, and Loki watched as, almost in slow motion, a huge glob of ice cream landed on the ankle of his right boot. Time seemed to stand still, then. The young girl’s mouth slowly opened, and her eyes went from the ice cream sliding off his boot, leaving a sticky, creamy slop in its wake, to the empty sugar cone still clutched in her filthy little palm. Back and forth. Her mouth snapped shut. Her lip quivered. Gods above, she was going to cry.

 

There were many things Loki could not tolerate of others. Crying was easily at the top of that list.

 

Before the Prince could even form the thought of how he would deal with the inevitable waterworks, a blonde woman approached at a jog, throwing her arms around the feeble little one with messy ice cream hands. “Kelsey! What did I tell you about staying with me! I thought I lost you. You _know_ how dangerous it is to walk the streets without me!” The woman was in a panic; with a guilty pang, Loki thought she reminded him of his own mother’s scolding. Well, not _his_ mother. He sighed. He did so hate to dwell on his home matters. However, Midgard wasn’t exactly proving itself a fruitful distraction.

 

“Were you talking to my daughter?” the woman suddenly at Loki; her tone had completely changed. Her eyes were as piercing blue as her daughter’s, though this time, lit up in anger. “She is _six years old_. What is _wrong_ with you? You thought you could just take advantage of the fact that she was all alone? You are _sick_!” The woman’s eyes glanced at Loki’s mussed boot and she seemed to take notice of the spilt ice cream. Her gaze flew back to her daughter, pitifully clutching the empty cone, and she turned her anger back to him full force. “And you tried to take her ice cream? Are you completely out of your mind? You know, some people are ignorant to the way children should be raised, but I think it’s good for them to have a little fun once in awhile. But you’re proving there’s no place safe for them to be free anymore. I shouldn’t have to worry about my daughter walking down the street, that someone might try to kidnap her, or cause her any harm, but that I have to worry when she has a motherfucking ice cream cone?!” Loki resisted the urge to roll his eyes as the woman went on. _My, though_ , he mused, _what colourful language_. Her precious young one would develop quite the vocabulary before long, with such an example.

 

Like a valiant knight in shining, spangled armour, Steve Rogers chose that moment to emerge from the small Arab eatery, and all it took was a dazzling, dimpled smile and a few half-apologies, and the blonde woman was dragging her daughter in the opposite direction, her cheeks bright pink and a new spring in her step. _Lovely_ , Loki longed to snark. _Once again, the day is saved, thanks to Captain America_.

 

“Brother!” Thor’s voice sounded, and he, too, exited the restaurant, stepping into the sunlight and turning every head in a quarter-mile radius with his booming speech. He a small, foil-wrapped bundle aloft, grinning from ear to ear. “I have procured you sustenance for our return to Asgard. I do believe this is the greatest delicacy in all the nine realms!”

 

It looked like Loki was getting his shawarma after all.


End file.
